


28 WAYS

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Multi, One Shot Collection, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: 28 ways to say "I love you"
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Natasha Romanov (Marvel) & Reader, Natasha Romanov (Marvel)/Reader, Steve Rogers & Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 49
Kudos: 198





	1. "it brings out your eyes" (b.b.)

**Author's Note:**

> This collection is taken from prompt requests here: https://heli0s-writes.tumblr.com/post/189950116134/28ways  
> This series will be ALL (I think!?) fluffy love, pining, and sweetness. Come talk to me on tumblr!

He’s faithful to darker shades. Sinks into the embrace of faded olive, slate grey, deep mahogany, and of course—because it’s him, if he can have it— black. Always, always, black. His sheets, satin, but black. His suit, neoprene, and black. Undershirt, overcoat, the same old song, the same old shroud that keeps him sheltered.

This morning, he’s in it again, fitted like a second skin.

A sly smile as you unravel your hand, showing him the stretch of fabric you’ve brought even though he’s not allowed to see you right now.

“ _It brings out your eyes_.”

The sky silk is gathered beneath his pristinely pressed collar. Delicate fingers brush strands from his shoulders, tuck them behind his ears, allowing his face to be exposed to the world in all its glory: beautiful and harmonious.

“Something blue, right?” You say.

Bucky searches your expression for solace, and you let one fringed side of his mane sweep back over his cheek, offering him the hidden comfort he seeks.

Then to the edges of the cloth, you work, breathing languid and slow, letting him match your pace. With your serenity, he finds his own, counting the muffled deceleration of his thrumming heartbeat. His eyes wander, but you work too quickly. A feather-light kiss to his cheek and then you’re gone, door clicking shut behind you.

Twenty minutes later at the end of the aisle, Bucky lovingly slips his hand into yours as he waits for the ceremony to begin. He ponders the strength of your fingers, of their dexterity, of their elegance, and of the way they can spread warmth all over his body.

You beam at his collar and the bow tie, matching it in a gossamer periwinkle dress-- untraditional for a bride, but you couldn’t be deterred.

With a tiny tilt of his lips, Bucky smiles, feeling the way you adore him melt into his bones.


	2. "just because" (b.b.)

Music travels leisurely, slipping through the cracked opening of gold framed balcony doors. Polished glass kaleidoscopes from the glittering chandelier, bouncing refractions.

He slips out, too. Greets the night and the lingering shadow.

Ice-gloved fingers of a wintry breeze caress his jaw and he knows your exposed shoulders must feel the frost. Bucky stands stalwart, takes a long pace to block you from the draft.

A quiet moment of contemplation.

“Why are you out here?”

Delicate earrings clink and sway by the column of your neck, threatening mischievously to brush against your collar. Rosy lips press like pleated petals before they part.

You reply with a playful cadence, “Just because.”

Unsaid truths follow a breath: _the crowd. The racket. The extravagance—fulsome and tired and exhausting._

Distant eyes long for remote quietude of the moon. That slim crescent hangs low tonight, resting atop your head like an opulent crown when you turn. Words seek him out with arduous attempt, sink into the cavity of his chest, softly land in his heart.

 _Pretty. So pretty._ He dares to summon others. _A wonder. A vision. Deserving his last whimper of adoration._

If he stares, he doesn’t bother to hide it. Only enthralled by the way your hand walks itself closer to his over the smooth banister. Eyes mirthfully crinkle as you dip your head, peering up at him with a slow curl of your lips.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Bucky?”

And _oh_ , the smile simmering over your mouth ignites a fire. Soft, blessed line of sacred symmetry, bent upward for him. He could worship it for the rest of his days.

Bucky chews on his words in consideration. In awe. A low hum from the depths of his chest as he ponders your radiance.

“ _Just because_.”

Against the chill of winter, your laughter burns brightly in his core.


	3. "i made your favorite" (s.r.)

He’s not in bed.

Last night’s fallout hovers like a persistent ghost. Its vindictive tendrils lick your ankles and arms, dragging you from the remainder of a desperate slumber. One hand reaches blindly and your fingers curl around empty sheets.

Bitter sunshine cuts over the comforter in white streaks like how Steve’s flaxen hair looked clutched inside his fist, knuckles strained paler than usual as you refused him of another self-assigned operation. Sandy locks fell to the side as he departed with a final statement:

_I’m not asking for permission._

You sigh into the empty room, rub your weary eyes with your hands at the memory of his retreating back. That stubborn hero boy, on the run and finished with grieving a lost lifetime and following rules has slipped on the coat of a harder man and shrugged off the rest of what made him _Steve_. _Your_ Steve.

Your Steve, who used to be playful, who used to pick you up by the waist while you made breakfast and nuzzle your neck like a cat. Your Steve, who would lean in sweetly over pancakes and kiss you all morning long.

Your Steve, who would rub his thumb over your cheek, staring as if you were the whole world.

The door startles you when he enters, stepping in with a plate of breakfast and a steaming mug. You can smell it from the bed, familiar scents coaxing your attention. Chamomile and a squeeze of lemon, blueberry pancakes drizzled in maple, fruit arranged in a silly pattern and his breath comes out in a hoarse whisper when he dips the mattress with his weight.

“ _I made your favorite_.”

You turn on your side and face his back. One hand cups his curved spine, brushing it over with your thumb. Worried hands fumble with the ceramic and his eyes can’t quite meet yours. “I didn’t mean what I said last night.” You offer him a smile and begin to rise.

Steve melts into your embrace when you sit up, head resting on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time, but I have to believe it’s the right thing.” He nuzzles your neck remorsefully, beard rustling against the collar of your shirt, “I shouldn’t have acted like that.”

Earnest blue eyes search your face when he sits back, placing the plate into his lap and the mug onto the table. He peers at you quietly, pressing his forehead against yours, hand stroking your jaw and hair. Full pink lips nervously tug to one side and the other before he tilts forward and hovers, quietly asking for the very permission he shirked hours before.

A line of morning sun streaks though, falling over his eyelashes luminously. Gold turns white, blue into silver.

And in this light, he almost looks like your Steve again.


	4. "it reminded me of you." (s.r. b.b. n.r)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was requested with "either Steve, Bucky, or Nat" and I decided, instead, on this poly clusterfuck. This hm... made me ... very sweaty. Phew.

Greedy hearts, some might say. Unfaithful or capricious or too wild, but you know better. You know that all the missing pieces from your jigsaw puzzle life can finally fall into place with them around.

It’s the same kind of song with different verses and four voices harmonizing in refrain. It’s all private and all open and there aren’t questions asked. It’s filthy and raw and so, so sweet. 

When your throat opens at night to swallow down the scents of them—warm vanilla and fresh pine, cinnamon sugar and musk, your heart sings loudly enough to drown out the rest of the world.

She doesn’t need to announce herself to you.

A slip of gossamer fabric glides over your collarbones when Natasha returns home. Her agile fingers knot a gorgeous scarf around your neck. Deepest navy and incarnadine red, melting into each other like an ocean horizon at sunset. Silvery crests break atop in vibrant moon-cast blooms, and your eyes travel over the flecks of gold weaving through it all as if carried on a breeze.

“What’s this?” You ask, sitting up.

Natasha smiles and the peel of her lips look like ripe berries, “ _It reminded me of you_.”

Over the back of the couch, she bends to catch you in a kiss, hand near your neck scooping your jaw. Long, pale fingers curl over your cheek, stroking and stoking the desire. She hungrily presses on, demanding more, and the rich fruit taste of her floods all the way down into your belly.

“Nothin’ for me from Paris?”

Bucky leans against the door frame and when Natasha turns to look, you take the chance to nibble along the bend of her svelte torso and drape your arms over her waist. Your spine curves like a cat and behind the swell of her breasts, your affections draw intrigue and distraction.

A simmering moan when you trace the dip of her sternum with your tongue, purposely leaving a damp trail. “I brought Steve back, isn’t that enough?”

“Missed you, Nat,” you sigh, ignoring Bucky, “Bed’s lonely.”

He’s immediately offended, “What am I –chopped liver?”

“You’re a _monster_!” You correct, “Can you believe him, Tasha? Sex four times a day not enough for this beast; you wouldn’t believe how my insides feel.”

“Natalia,” Bucky slinks closer, Russian accent swelling instinctively with the breath of her name and you love it. Those slurred and crackling consonants in their old language, clicking edges snapping tight. “Tell me you can keep your hands to yourself with our _kotenok_ always lookin’ so pretty?” You swat his him away when he tries to reach down the front of your shirt, so he does it to Natasha instead, obviously on a mission.

A warm and familiar laugh completes the puzzle and Steve enters, too, still clad in his stealth suit. Your eyes are mesmerized at the ripple of his muscles as he walks beneath that dark neoprene. That damn outfit. All midnight contrast over his pale, slimming the broad strength of his body into a vicious blade. You clench rhythmically to his every step, forgotten about the tender ache of past nights.

Then, it returns with, “Damn it, Stevie, how’m I supposed to behave with you strutting in like that? Jesus, I’m hard already.”

“See what I mean?” You accuse, pitching yourself into Steve’s arms, hissing at Soldat defiantly, “Tell him something, baby.” A mewling whine elicits chuckling from your lovers.

Natasha links her fingers through Bucky’s, waiting for Steve with a cherry smirk.

With another low chuckle and his strong arms tucking beneath your bottom, Steve lifts you over the couch until you’re straddling his hips, “Well,” he grins, nipping at your shoulder. Bucky pulls him away, kisses him full on the mouth and you sigh at how their profiles slot together. Another perfect fit.

The percussion begin slowly.

Breaths evenly match each other’s pace when Steve’s lips returns to yours, spit slick with Bucky’s taste, and it makes him delicious. Makes him perfect. Natasha moves between the boys, rewarding patience with an elegant arch of her torso and back on both. And Bucky, your eager, delighted Bucky, unbuttons your pants blindly with one hand and himself with the other. Triumphant at last.

Blue, blue, blue. All three clouded with deafening lust and love when the drums strike wilder. Steve sets you back down, pushing until you fall from the hard edge of the couch onto the cushions, legs propped up suggestively, thighs open for him. He tugs your pants off and Natasha snakes her hands around his waist, freeing the straps from his chest.

To their right, Bucky’s eyes are on fire, drinking in your hot skin like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you. Vulgar with adoration. Alight with sudden interest at your still swathed neck. Slow, but yours– _theirs–_ either way. You giggle at his belated admiration.

“I like that,” Bucky murmurs breathlessly at the delicate silk, shimmering their colors. Navy. Silver. Red. And _you_ —golden and glowing twined all the way through. “Really do.”

“Told you she’d look good in it,” Natasha remarks before tugging his attention back to her with strong fingers on his jaw. Steve glides his hands up her neck, tilts her head toward Buck’s hot tongue.

In front of you, one hand fisting Natasha’s hair and the other on your ankle, opening you wider, Steve hums appreciatively and licks his teeth. Your tummy could burst to the next thundering beat of his command.

“Keep it on, baby. Everything else comes off.”


	5. "let me walk you home." (b.b.)

When Bucky finally returns to Wakanda, it seems like nothing has changed. 

Five years of oblivion, one year of grieving, and he finally pulls himself together enough to visit the country that made him whole.

The fields are lush. The city, animated. The people, kind. The royal family is expecting him, still full of easy care for this broken boy. T’Challa sends his best to accommodate The White Wolf even though Bucky had refused to be treated with so much attention.

In response, and with some cheek, the king assures him his new accommodations are even more luxurious than before and Bucky thinks it must be Shuri’s doing.

No, Bucky smiles to himself, nothing has changed. It makes him feel steady and safe again, like both his feet are on solid ground and not slipping off another train.

Until he disembarks and steps down from the ramp where the sun catches in his eye a little, makes him blink out the afterimage of its bright glare. When he’s finally able to see the figure at the edge of the landing pad, the Earth rocks with a tremendous lurch.

You stand comfortably at the end of the ramp, fingers linked in a loose weave, eyebrow quirked at him.

Six years but you’re just as he remembers. Lopsided mouth a little lifted at one corner, forever affixed in a state of watchful amusement. Your deep amethyst gown is free-flowing and beautifully patterned, arabesque lines curving against the arch of your thighs when you turn from the jet. It dips low in the back, and he can see the glisten of shea rubbed over the grooves of your skin.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you greet over your shoulder, “Welcome back to Wakanda. _Let me walk you home._ ”

 _Undoubtedly_ Shuri’s doing.

-

The Golden City is resplendent and against the backdrop of sky-spiraling towers and illuminated technology, you are a singular beauty to behold. Bucky feels cracked open in all the ways he used to be: unstitched, untethered, barely holding on in a light breeze.

“Remember this, Sergeant?” You ask, leading him forward, pointing down a pathway, “Didn’t the children corner you once?” 

“Yes,” he remembers.

“And the mandazi cart? Didn’t you prefer the cinnamon sugar topping best?”

“Yes,” Bucky replies quietly, “Just a little. Not too sweet.”

“I remember you didn’t like anything too sweet.”

And the shudder that follows sends his blood straight to his head. Bucky’s knees feel like they could give out as he coughs with a stammer, shoving his hands in his pockets, staring at his shoes scuffed up with dirt. Anything to distract himself from the memory of a mid-morning bruise growing on his collar and the subsequent teasing from Shuri. A bite. A scratch. The way your face looked with the hot white streak of sun falling in your open mouth. Bodies still encased in free-flowing cotton, but it was enough to sear his entire being. That pretty, perfect, picture of you on his thigh. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

He coughs again.

You keep on coolly, stepping side to side and avoiding the crowd with ease as if your comment didn’t mean a thing. As if it didn’t trip him up almost physically through the street.

“Have any plans while you’re here?” You ask innocently, stopping at a booth of flowers and browsing through orchids. Daisies and irises peer back at you, beckoning your touch. Bucky reaches into his pocket, buys a violet that matches your dress with the intention of – he doesn’t know, tucking it behind your ear? Six years later and he still doesn’t know what to do with you.

But, of course, it’s been six years for you, and only one for him.

His stomach drops at the thought of a separation only oblivion can create between two people so _damn_ close to a beginning. An irreconcilable distance of time that will never align and how could he be so naïve to think nothing has changed?

“No,” he replies a little dumbly as your hand jingles with change. “No plans. Just…” A melancholy look at the way you turn from him.

“Missed it?”

“Yeah.”

The stroll continues. One violet in his hand, two Calla Lillies in yours. You turn them round and round, pressing your nose to the spathes, letting their soft points flick over your lips. He feels forgotten altogether until he hears your tepid voice, shaded with the slightest of sorrows.

“They’re a symbol of rebirth and resurrection. I thought it was fitting; you do look reborn, after all.”

Bucky runs his hand instinctively through his hair—cut short now, and he’s still trying to get used to it. His throat constricts. He suddenly aches all over.

“Thank you,” he says finally, after a long while. “For, uh, walking me.”

“We’re not there yet.”

“I just meant—”

“I’m teasing, Sergeant.”

Up the iron stairs you ascend, looking back at him every few steps with a grin. At the door, you pause, both hands coming together to grasp onto the waxy stalks of the flowers, turning them again. “Hope my teasing didn’t offend you?”

“No,” Bucky replies, watching the way you unlock the door deftly, reaching inside to turn the light on for him. “… I remember you liked to tease.”

The smack of the blooms against his chest is abrupt and it takes him by surprise when you laugh sharply.

“Oh! Is that right? What else do you remember?”

He stutters, a little eager, a little hesitant. “I remember—” a thick swallow and you trace the motion of his throat with gentle eyes, walking backwards, hanging your hopes on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. Bucky presses his lips together.

“I remember us.”

“Yeah?” You take the violet and cross into the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass from the counter and placing the flowers inside, going quiet. “Remember us doing what?”

He’s no good at this. This game. This cat and mouse tension of your provocation. The heady atmosphere of growing closer together but somehow drifting further apart. Every question is a challenge, a play for something from him—an admission? An apology? A funeral? You call him Sergeant. You hardly look at him. But then you stand, hip jutting, palms flat on the counter, chin on your shoulder and just the sweet shock of your profile is enough to cut him clean through.

“Lots of things.” Bucky steps over the eggshells because he might as well crush them now. 

Reaches the small of your back with his hand, palming the straight column of your exposed spine and counts all the goosebumps that break across your skin. Flesh on flesh, his lips on your shoulder and then neck. He remembers this. Remembers the way you sigh and lean into him. Remembers the heat. Remembers his heart, stitched back together by your loving fingers.

His right hand slips through the open space of your dress. All five warm fingers splay out, gripping your side and curling over your lower ribs. And god, he’s trembling head to toe, feet so unbalanced now he might fall completely.

Your head leans back onto his shoulder, weight of it holding him down, “You’re shaking.”

With a slow turn, you face him, fingertip trailing up his neck and along the curve of his throat to his chin. Tilting him up to the ceiling, you press a blazing kiss onto his neck, “Am I making it better or worse?”

He doesn’t mean to do it—or maybe he does, but the speed of it surprises even Bucky when he lifts you by the thighs and places you on the sink counter. He cuts off your sharp gasp and turns it into an exhilarated moan, presses your chest to his with frantic hands, nudges your legs open to nestle himself in between.

And _hell_ , the way you feel in his arms—delicate but full of fight, softly pulsing with the strength he’s always admired about you—it feels safe. Steady. The kind of stable that’s always been taken from him too soon. It’s been six years—or one—or whatever, and his entire being is vibrating with the magnitude of a catastrophic earthquake, but Bucky can’t be bothered to care about any of that now. Your mouth is open, tongue sweeping over his, teeth playfully nipping at his bottom lip, and it dashes away all his good sense.

When he breaks away, he’s overly aware of his erratic heartbeat. His swollen mouth. Kissed tender and it takes what’s left of his breath to see that you match him just as well. You lean forward again, and he meets you for another two, three, five kisses. He loses count after a few more, eager and fumbling and dizzy as he peppers them over your cheek, down to your collar.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warn, hand tugging him away by his hair, “Bite me and I’ll kick you out.”

Bucky pauses and snaps upright, confused at the statement and the way your eyes sparkle with amusement. Knowingly, you nod to the space behind him, “I live here, Bucky.”

“What?” He mutters. It takes him a minute, but he finally looks around and notices the simple decorations. The well-cared for plants. The soft blanket over the couch. The mug of coffee with a stirring spoon stuck inside. The small plate of—his heart skips a beat—half-eaten mandazi with cinnamon sugar on top. “Oh, god.”

Bucky presses the heel of his palm to his eyes, doesn’t know if he might laugh or sob. Maybe both.

Still in the hold of his one hand, you twist halfway, moving the glass further in case either one of you might knock it over. The spathes of the lilies turn idly to look at him, draped over the tufts of violet petals. Two stalks in perfect symmetry. Symbols of resurrection for both him and you.

Smoothing the shorn chestnut strands gone a little awry from your grip, your eyes search his face, memorizing his lines. All things of his old and new.

“Welcome back to Wakanda, Sergeant.” Your mischievous mouth finds his again, holding him steady with familiar sweetness, “I missed you.”


	6. "i'll wait" (b.b.)

The path through the woods is overrun. Heat of a thawed winter warms his determined steps as wild grass stems flick his shins. Speckled seed heads bow when he parts them with ease. His destination is sharper each passing second and he feels it shudder awake and alive, rocking him with anticipation.

Nestled inside the verdant greenery even maps couldn’t mark is the safehouse cabin, a sanctuary of dappled sunlight and unspoiled earth. A secret you keep close to your heart, allowing only few to know.

Bucky would never have come to your hideaway uninvited.

But it had been a week without you and the ache grew restless.

Inside, the imprint of your shadow reveals furtive observations his heart collects when you’re around: half-finished mugs of coffee, abandoned papers by the dining table showcasing scenery in skillful marks, its accompanying array of chalk pastels to the side. Bucky investigates your traces like footsteps of a trail, eyes reaching stems of wilderness collected and pressed between journals. Novels piled in stacks on the counter with fondly dogeared pages of tender quotes.

Faithful habits of chasing escapism he knows all too well.

The bedroom door is slightly ajar, but empty still. Pillows are pushed down in careless piles, blankets and sheets crumpled against each other. How did you look this morning, he wonders. Hair mussed prettily in disarray? Long lashes fluttering, heavy-lidded for a few blessed seconds?

A glance at the softly indented spot where your cheek laid just hours prior and he exhales.

Probably lovely. Like always.

_There_.

Bucky spots the familiar hue of your crown deep in wild grass. Buzzing wings land on your bicep, crawl to your elbow. Wildflowers are entangled sweetly in your hair.

Ethereal and finally found like the recollection of a wayward dream.

A delicately molded face with rounded chin regards his figure. You are resplendent like spring itself, yet the corner of your bottom lip is pulled inside your mouth, tongue holding back the tide of a million thoughts. 

Bucky swallows drily when a pained smile shifts your eyes downward, but neither of you are ready to address your isolation or his arrival. Instead, one hand reaches forward over the blades, palm faced at a slant, eyes imploring him closer.

Effortless steps lead him past tall trunks. He’s close behind your graceful weaving, hand over yours carefully, keeping you close as if he might lose you again.

Trees finally give way to a small clearing where fallen logs lie haphazardly, adorned by worms and beetles that loiter about in ridges of the bark. Dandelions rise from the earth between tufts of grass and droop gently in the breeze. Patches of dirt pattern the forest floor, quickly becoming overcrowded with seeds and remnants of the nature all around.

He’s awestruck by how you find these pockets of splendor where time fades and surroundings suddenly seem to be glazed over by a painter’s brush. Delicate phthalo emerald leaves, linseed glaze of the highest shine, gold-grained flecks over blades of grass, and it’s like he’s entered a Rococo rendering. A pastoral Arcadian landscape, fragrant and idyllic and sublime. Steve would weep at the sight if he were here.

You shift into the scenery— all light-footed with buoyant step until you pause, distracted by a ring of chanterelles. Half-shaded by the canopy, half-illuminated by the streaming and stubborn sun, their soft caps looking like thick marshmallow brushwork.

“Better not step in or fairies will take you.”

A mischievous peek at him before you turn back around. Intrigued blue admire the collection of buds falling apart in your hair, lavender and orange petals crumbling down your back and he thinks for a moment perhaps fairies have already taken hold of him.

At a stream of water, you kneel and invite Bucky to your side with earnest pats. Tilting forward on elbows and knees, you press your body to the ground and gaze at the trickle as it runs, mouth curving into a smile. The wide neck of your top slips when you duck to smell a blossom, exposing a broad line of collar and shoulder. Strips of baby-fresh skin cord down your arm like vines, strangling the moment.

Six days with your advanced healing and you’re practically brand new again in all ways but one.

“Buck? I’m glad you’re here.” Your mouth opens after a second of mulling over a thought, breath on the pinnacle of a confession before a snap and pop alerts both your heads over the water to where something emerges from behind a tree. He’s already up on his feet, poised to protect, drawing laughter from your throat when you spot the intruder.

Tawny grey and absurdly harmless, the bunny’s nose is frantically twitching, cheek full of sweet berries but alert with wild panic. One tall ear quirks Bucky’s way and the moment grows quiet as the three of you watch each other earnestly, before finally, as if it’s had enough of his shadow, it takes off into the deeper woods behind.

“Sorry,” he offers, sitting back down on his haunches.

A swat to his knee—mouth still cheerful, “Nah, just in its nature to run.” Then, suddenly, you avert your gaze. “Keeping itself safe.”

One hand wraps around the other shoulder and you begin to cave, folding inward like those bedsheets, pulling yourself smaller and smaller. “Maybe it’s in my nature to run, too.”

The quiver of your voice wounds him. The ache, the tremble, the silent lament when you duck your head down, hiding. Bucky waits for now, lets you have a few seconds because he knows you need this: the silence and comfort of nothing sentient. The balm of meandering wind prose. The consoling ebb of water. The midnight song of crickets because sometimes the human world is too loud, too painful, violent, and unfair. Indiscriminately vicious. Because sometimes, people hurt, and hurt, and _hurt_. 

And despite your best efforts—you hurt, too.

Your heart behaves in ways he’s well-versed in. He knows it. Knows you.

You remain on the forest floor, face buried into the crook of your elbow and it reminds him of how you lie supine across the couch after sunset, feet propped in his lap, watching the warm sherbet gradient, patient for the curtain of night when all things rest. Aglow and warmed by the disappearing sunlight. Painted blue-gold. A little shattered. Still lovely.

Deeper in the woods, birds begin to sing.

Bucky reaches forward tentatively, slowly, until he’s holding your arm, fingers gently curling. “Hey,” he whispers when you rise from the curve of your elbow to look at him. “I’m not in a hurry to leave. _I’ll wait_.”

He points to the tepid rivulet, a trickle of it going sideways and cutting through a patch of dirt. “Bit of running water, nice sunshine. Looks like our day’s booked full.”

It’s enough to make you grin even if your smile is a little swollen around the edges.

A breath as you trace the slope of his touch all the way back up to his face. Another breath as you watch him watching you, lips slightly parted, eyes searching, knowing, seeing you. Caring for you.

And then you’re up, closest hand gripping his, other one reaching with haste to find his neck, or chest, something to support your weight when you pitch forward.

Even though he wasn’t expecting it, but because he’s fast, Bucky meets you halfway, pulling you flush into his lap, letting your damp cheeks rest on his collar. Like he’s done it all his life, his arms arrange themselves without another thought, locked tightly over your back, fingers stroking lightly down your spine.

A gentle breeze blows through and ruffles his eyelashes under the canopy, scattered sunlight falls on his chestnut head, lighting up stray hairs. He’s warm daylight and sugary sunshine. Soothing meadow brook music and butterfly wing caresses. Your heart bumps along in time with his, chest on chest when you turn and look up at him, nose tip rubbing against his chin. Bucky chances a smile at you, sincere and concerned and doting.

Lovely, you think. Like always.

You graze your cheek over his, eyelashes kissing along the path, feeling emboldened nestled like this, wanting to tell him—show him—feel him, too.

But instead, like that little rabbit, you tuck yourself back and away, not yet ready.

Bucky hums to the tune of your breath when you shyly press your brow against his collar, cutting off the start of an apology with a promise. “It’s okay.”

And it is.

Birdsongs echo through the trees and he feels it in his bones the way you sink into his hold. Trembling and warm and perfect. Heartbeat dancing along with his. He’s waited hundred years for a love like this. He’d be happy to wait a hundred more.


	7. "i noticed" (s.r.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Depression

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You promised yourself last week there would be only a few days of stillness. Of grey clouds and fogged mornings and eclipsed sun and quiet sorrow. This time, you’ll chase it off. This time, you’ll be strong enough.

Your shoulders shake again on the fourth day. Beneath the crumpled blanket you quiver and gasp—sharp, stilted inhales and exhales, bit-back whimpers, listening to the frenetic wind lashing inside your wintry heart. How it feels again, frozen solid and so, so heavy. Maybe melting for a brief spring, but only to frost overnight, petrified once more.

And it hurts.

Oh, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

And you never know how to make it stop. You got stuck. You’re stuck again. And you’ll be stuck forever.

So, you pretend. Put on that well-polished mask of cheerful indifference over your wilting soul and turn your face. Armor powders over your sullen expression. Black kohl fills in the hollow stare of your eyes. Red gloss spackles together the cracked smirk on your lips.

 _Look at me. Look at how fine I am,_ it says.

_Look at me. Look how I smile. How sharp my teeth. How strong my jaw. There is no weakness here._

_Look at me._

-

Steve can tell when you enter the room. Stepping with your shoulders back and spine straight, hips swaying easily into meetings. Grinning at Sam’s jibes, playing with Natasha’s hair, punching Bucky in the shoulder when he asks what you’re up to tonight, _all dolled up—thassa nice color on ya, don’t you think so, Stevie_?

He nods and hums and gazes on when you swivel to him, grinning. Immaculate, lovely. Long lashes and glistening doe eyes. You’re brilliant. You’re spectacular. You’re an award-winning actress and everyone is struck dumb by the performance.

When you leave, you smile again, and he returns it with one of his own. Wide. Open. Alight with the kind of rehearsed joy that never reaches his eyes.

 _I see you_ , it says. _I see you._

-

Music is muffled through the door, but loud enough for him to hear—up-tempo drums, swinging bass line, buoyant melody. High, silvery voices. Celebratory, reckless, youth. Seizing the night. Loving life.

Quietly, he knocks. Once, then twice, and when there’s no answer, he lets himself into the darkness. Your room is empty and cold. Your bed is missing your body. A sliver of yellow light cuts him in half from the bathroom door.

You’re curled up in the shape of a fist, nestled like a stone in the porcelain embrace of the tub. Knees to your chest, forehead pushed down, arms wrapped like ropes keeping yourself in once piece. Smudges of red and black stain soft wipes at Steve’s feet, turns cotton white into a canvas of tempestuous painter’s marks. Debris of various containers, waxy lipstick, crushed powder litter the floor, all broken apart. The mirror houses a small spiderweb crack at the corner.

Steve sits, carefully arranging himself at the edge of the tub. Carefully arranging the words inside his mouth. Fitted clever syllables assembled into a sparse and secret message.

“I’m not doing great.” You say curtly, muffled by your legs.

“ _I noticed_.” He replies, just as short.

“Don’t look at me.”

“I won’t.”

You face slips sideways from the cover of your arms. Roughly wiped spotless, swollen at the curves of your cheeks, your eyes, your mouth, every line inflamed. Anguished. Fresh tears roll out, collecting at the sloped bridge of your nose before continuing their descent.

“You’re a liar.”

He laughs softly, never breaking his gaze, “So are you.”

The music fades away at the final track of the album as you watch him sideways, pale face of his seemingly suspended in the air, floating like an invented daydream.

Eyes and lips clean. Noise silenced. Armor falling off. You feel lighter and lighter.

There’s not much more after that. The room returns to its clinical state, sheltered and encapsulated inside a ceramic tile and striped-wallpaper box.

Steve links his fingers through yours, splaying them open before squeezing tightly. The gentle warmth of his discreet care seeps into your bones with each passing second.

The fog lifts. The clouds part. Winter thaws a little earlier than you expect.


	8. "i was just thinking about you" (b.b)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem in this is “Steps” by Frank O’Hara, and it is lovely.

“Honey?”

You glance up from behind a thin book at the sound of his voice. Early Saturday morning with two cups of coffee on the table, sweetened how he likes.

“Morning, lover.”

A smile at his still-mussed hair from sleep, clever flickers in your eyes lingering too long.

“What is it?” Bucky asks, curious.

“Nothing.” You respond, “I just—” another grin. Bigger this time.

You close the pages between your hands and purse your lips slyly. One eyebrow raises while avoiding his gaze, a fluttering secret in your heart growing higher. 

Oh, it’s sweet. He loves how endearing it is that you share with him all manners of things, but sometimes hold onto a few for yourself, wrapping your thoughts around simple joys, tucking them away for another time.

Silly jokes imparted to him before bed just to hear his laugh. Trivial knowledge, allotted when you deemed necessary, and he would roll his eyes to tease, _when is this ever necessary_? Quotes that linger, that you love tenderly, kissed onto his skin so that he would know you adored him, too.

This morning you’re starry eyed and marveling at him like you’ve discovered something profound.

He comes closer now, sliding onto his knees. One fist props against his cheek, elbow next to his mug, tilting his head.

Softly, you admit, “ _I was just thinking about you,_ Bucky.”

“About me? Why’s that?”

“A sweet poem. All sweet things make me think about you.”

His chest swells with affection, on the cusp of overflowing and he wonders how a modest smattering of words can so easily render him speechless. The sly smile returns to your face.

Slowly, you reveal your joy to him, already committed to memory from pages shut carefully on the table. Fingers dance up the length of his forearm as you lean forward.

“Oh God, it’s wonderful,” you recite, tracing the ridges of his knuckles. “To get out of bed,” your beautiful mouth hovers over his hand, lips brushing just so on his cheek.

Bucky listens attentively, shifts in hopes of catching you, but you’re faster.

“And drink too much coffee,” a kiss to his nose, instead. “And smoke too many cigarettes.”

Both your hands cup his jaw and he falls into the infinite vastness of your affection.

“And love you so much.”


	9. "take my jacket, it's cold outside" (s.w.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Sam! Let me know what you think. xx

Sam is trying to have a good night when duty calls in the form of Bucky’s furious texting.

He has at least fifteen more minutes until he receives seven voicemails, and he’s already dreading that gruff voice demanding _where the hell are you?_

Most of the time, Sam is so quick– lickety-split and he’s ready to go. Wings strapped, suit zipped, goggles on and always out the door before any of them.

But tonight, he’s on a date.

Tonight, he’s in a dark auditorium with you holding his hand, eyes blinking along to the suspenseful musical score. A romantic movie full of drama and steam. A perfectly simple outing because lately he really needs simple.

He used to go all out—half-day stretches of time where he’d woo a girl with walks, long five-course dinners and drinks. Flowers and the whole she-bang. Movies preceding a night spent unwinding on the couch, joking, laughing, getting frisky— and _yeah_ —he still wants that.

But sometimes he only has ten minutes left and one movie is about the longest thing he can sit through these days. Sure, he wants to wine and dine and love on you by the fireplace, but he’s in high demand to save a cat, or a grandmother, or the whole damn state of New York. So it’s difficult, to say the least.

It’s been almost two months and he’s only gotten a handful of time with you under his belt. Most of them interrupted, just like this one. Just like the next one, too, he laments. Sam curses under his breath when his phone pulses again. You squeeze his hand sympathetically.

Sam looks over, rubbing his shoulder against yours, keeping the moment still and keeping his heart still, too, while his brain is frantically counting down the seconds left before he _really_ has to go.

“You’re doing that thing. Staring.” You whisper as quietly as possible, leaning in until your lips nearly brush his ear. Prickles rush down his spine.

Gotta play it cool. Be smooth, Wilson.

Sam grins, “I can’t stare at you now? How else’m I suppose to appreciate all this gorg—” and he gets cut off by a furious chorus of shushing behind him. You physically pinch your lips together with your fingers to stop the giggles.

“Oh, come on!” You take his hand, leading him out of the row of seats, knocking into knees and legs, apologizing half-heartedly all the while.

In the lobby, you smooth the wrinkles from your sweater and raise an eyebrow pointedly, “Gotta go?”

“Nah…”

“How many more minutes?”

He can’t hide anything from you. You’re too observant for your own damn good and sharper than he gives you credit for. Sam checks his watch. “Ten.”

“So… five?”

Sam tries not to laugh but damn it, you’re _good_. He can feel his mouth jerking up and sideways and you look at him emphatically, brows raised as if to say _uh-huh… clocked your ass._

“Five’s fine,” you murmur, tapping your foot and straightening your shoulders. Concentrated, you pinch your lips together, lick them deliberately. “I can work with five.”

“Say what?”

Before Sam can make heads or tails of what you mean, you boldly push him until he backs up into the nearest wall. Fists clutching the front of his jacket, your feet lifted in heels, you lean until your lips meet his in a heated kiss. He stutters at first, dazed and embarrassed that the cashier at the concession stand is getting a whole free showing of Falcon in civvies being completely struck.

Like, eyes blown wide, shocked-stiff- _struck_.

And then, like the crescendo of every romantic movie, his inner monologue booms, tapers out, and he feels himself go slack. You’re warm. You’re wonderful. You’re kissing him with your entire lovely mouth, and it is oh-hell-goddamn-fantastic. He’s only gotten a little bit of this, and it seems like you’re just as impatient as he is at this point.

He tips into it, places both hands on your waist and presses back gently, gasping. With every excited inhale, he grows braver, ducks the posturing and concern of being Falcon and goes back to being Sam Wilson, smitten in a theater, head over heels for a girl.

“Um—excuse me? S-sir… y-you can’t— Oh gee.” The kid at the register whimpers quietly, takes a step away, and then steps back. “Sir? There’s families!”

“Yeah! Sorry!” He clears his throat, standing up, blinking the stars out of his eyes, “Sorry, man.” A couple with small children exiting a theatre looks disapprovingly over and before he can apologize, you yank him back down for one more brazen show of affection. Then, you grin. Smug.

Sam’s feet feel both weightless and leaden as he plods along when you make towards the exit, head still spinning like a top. Thankfully, he at least remembers his manners before you reach the door, extending his hand to press against the thick glass. The nip of a New York autumn on his palm snaps him back to reality.

“ _Take my jacket_ —” he stutters, gathering what’s left of his giddy brain, “ _It’s cold outside_.”

A laugh pours from that incredible mouth of yours as he tugs the fabric around your shoulders, taking a second to revel in how sweet it looks on you— bit large, but protected. In something of his. Makes you look _like_ his.

Oh, hell… he’s done for.

“Thank you, Sam.” One hand finds the smooth landing of his face, thumb brushing under his eyes, on that thin skin, tickling his lashes. Slowly, you place a final chaste kiss to his jaw. A small sentiment for such a lovely time, a signature and a seal for the previously heated moment.

It’s sweet. Chaste and adoring. His heart settles down for a beat until you rile him up again.

“Be safe. Swing by after.”

He makes a noise of confusion. A stutter of a yelp smothered quickly by the shutting of his mouth when he catches himself. _Real smooth, Wilson_. A disbelieving smirk and you laugh. Long and hard and wipe the corner of your eye. You step out into the night and shake your head, hailing a cab by the curb. 

The gleaming yellow door swings wide as you yank, taking a second to pause before climbing in. Sam watches you tug his jacket snugly around your body, coyly looking up, a slow, easy smile stretching over your face, “Go save the world, Sam Wilson. Come get some when you’re done—Maybe I’ll keep this thing on all night. Not sure about the rest of my clothes, though…”

A tug on the handle and the metal slams shut.

Struck. _Again_.

He’s gone before the car pulls away, lickety-split, and faster than his feet’s ever moved. His phone buzzes. Shocks his entire body.

“Where the hell are you?”

“On my way, Barnes!” Cheery. “Not even you can ruin my mood right now.”

“Shut up. Bye.”

Whooping and shouting. He even does a little jump, clicking his heels together and pumps his fist and thinks about the way you looked with your chin down, blazing a trail with your eyes right into him.

Sam is having a good night, after all.


	10. "i think you're beautiful" (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short one with Bucky for all of us who fear aging because of y’know, this stupid toxic world that tells us we should. xx

“What is that?”

“Cucumbers.”

“I can see _those_. I have eyes, you know.”

“Then why’re you askin?”

“I’m talkin—I’m talkin’ about the _goo_. God, I hate you so much.” But you hear the smile in his voice. A long friendship and this kind of banter is well expected.

“You little sweet-talker, Barnes.” And he can hear the smile in yours.

Bucky lands on the couch, heavy body leaned forward to inspect the innocuous little jar and its accompanying damp rag where you wiped your fingers off. A cursory sniff and it smells fine enough, but all sorts of ingredients stare back at him and he shakes his head, puts it back down. Rejuvenating—age reversal—fine line eraser— why would you want to erase anything?

“Not all of us can stay looking like a springy-skinned twenty-four forever, you know,” you answer. Fingers reach for his face, land on his nose, then wander to his cheek before you give him a firm slap across it.

“Ouch,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing the sting. He takes a look at your folded hands in your lap, faint sunspots splattered across like a joyful trail, up your arms, shoulders, everything still glowing it always has. 

You’d been jokingly (secretly not jokingly, because a long friendship also means he can read you better than that stupid fucking jar) mentioning your upcoming birthday, lamenting the years of youth gone by, prophesying your aching joints and impending crow’s feet and Bucky doesn’t even know what those _are_ because—he chances another glimpse at painted toes with cotton stuffed between them—your feet look the same as ever.

“Well, _I think you’re beautiful_ ,” he says simply, truthfully, “Goo on your face ‘n all.”

You could be turning a million and he’d probably still think so. What’s time got to do with it, anyway?

“You really are a sweet-talker, aren’t you?”

“Not a liar, though.”

He takes a cucumber and pops it into his mouth, grinning when your left eye blinks at him in disbelief.


	11. "watch your step" (b.b)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a lil fluffy one :^)

He’s old school charm inside the chrysalis shell of an even older soul. Reserved in the way reticence can only be brought on by time and suffering. Tacit and restrained—expressive through soft and short phrases.

Bucky Barnes.

Mysterious and untouchable. You stumble around him like a clumsy planet orbiting the sun. Starry-eyed. Magnetized.

Sometimes, there are flashes of iridescence—of his magic, his light, and the ways his eyes shine, and it hurts to imagine what violence he must have known to become so gentle.

Well, you do know the violence. Who doesn’t? The story of the Winter Soldier engineered from fragments of James Buchanan Barnes’ torn soul. Patchworked into the kind of monster that leaves imprints long after its exorcism. But, he’s disciplined. Keeps it at bay with his serenity.

So, you love him.

So, you keep stumbling.

Words like misguided currents, you babble good mornings, good to see yous, good nights. You duck inside glass elevators when he holds the door, skitter around like a live wire when he quirks his head. You avoid isolated assignments with him, terribly afraid of yourself, of the possibility that your imbalance might ruin an objective.

But it’s unavoidable. On a skeleton crew of five against the world, it’s unavoidable.

Steve in Europe. Natasha in Asia. Sam slips two invitations across what you’ve jokingly dubbed the War Room table—polished wood where Morgan slapped heart stickers haphazardly across like locations of a campaign map—and says, “Suit up.”

It’s the most intimate time you’ve spent in his company. He’s dressed to the nines—and oh god—over his chest, midnight blue velvet melts black under shadows, shimmers lustrous under moonlight. He walks like a silver screen movie star, poised like a sovereign. The thigh holster strapped to your left leg keeps brushing up against him, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Are you cold?”

“No, I’m—I’m fine.” But you could die on the spot because you _are_ trembling.

“Take my arm, won’t you?”

He’s firm and controlled, guides you up the stairs, onto the balcony, stops at the banister railing and gazes down at the crowd below. Right away, you canvas—at least functional enough to do your job—and quickly sweep. One at each exit, three making rounds, another at the blackjack table. The bathroom attendant’s stance is barely awkward enough and when he fixes his jacket, dull leather peeks out from his hip.

“He’s green.”

“You saw him?”

Sam likes to say that you’re the _real_ bird of the squad—eagle-eyed and sharper than Barton in his prime. More discreet than Redwing’s scan, critical now without Friday attached to Tony’s glasses. So it surprises you when Bucky tilts his head at the bathroom, landing on the same agent.

“I saw you see him,” he whispers, “Wouldn’t have otherwise.” Then, quickly “Laugh.”

And you do, selling it effortlessly, palm on his elbow for good measure, tittering with one shoulder pulled to your chin when two men in matching black suits approach. Bucky chuckles too, grips your shoulder like a returned jest. Another quiet gasp of air and you stop, peeking over to watch them go.

“I didn’t–” Your brow furrows when they don’t glance back. Don’t move in any way except like civilians.

A poorly suppressed smile and Bucky turns back to the crowd, hand back at his side.

“Hm. My mistake.”

The Earth seems to lurch out of orbit. The blue of his eyes sparkle with delight—you’re shocked quiet— _quieter_ —heart firmly jammed in your throat. It makes its home there. Stays perfectly put after you split up, when you bend down fix your hemline, when you knock a champagne glass out of a young woman’s grip at the roulette wheel, when you take advantage of ensuing disorder to lift a keycard from a security guard.

When you meet him down the narrow hallway, his hair tumbled out of its elastic, impressed grin on his handsome face. A flick of his thumb on the onyx button of his jacket and it opens. Then, down the path you go, shoes off, matching him step for step.

He moves like water, fluid and smooth, gliding through spaces you didn’t imagine could fit him, crashing into bodies with the kind of force that takes them to their knees. He’s remarkable. Trained. Seared with the skill they’ve inscribed into his muscles, his core, Bucky hits hard and deliberate. You swallow every time another drops—immobilized, still alive—reverential.

“Careful.”

Three paces ahead, Bucky looks back at you, hurtling over an incapacitated agent. It only takes a second, just the one, for a bullet to shoot from the corner of the next turn. You barely duck in time, momentum already taking you forward and onto Bucky’s back, both of you crashing down.

A crack from your pistol. Miss. One more. Hit. Everything goes quiet.

Then, a quiet rustle that could possibly have gotten away if your skin wasn’t bursting with adrenaline, and you fire again without missing. It’s the first time your hands have been steady all night.

Bucky’s eyes are wide when you pull him up from the burgundy carpet. He stares as you tuck the pistol back into its strap, shoes still gripped under your arm. Then, wordlessly, he steps back, deferring soundlessly to your lead, mesmerized the entire time. Even after you pick the lock of the door, then the vault, after you replace the package inside with a replica and then thrash the room, meticulously arranging objects to mimic an unsuccessful rifling, Bucky can’t help it.

“Okay,” you say, suddenly shy now that your objective’s been met, remembering his presence so near. You brush stray hairs from your neck, smooth out your gown, and take a deep breath, releasing your heels with a clatter. “Alright. Think we can make it back out?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Okay. Let me just—”

But he’s dropped to his knees, taking your foot into his hold, guiding it easily into the cushion of the stiletto. A finger against your Achilles tendon, a soft nudge and your heel slips in. Bucky runs his thumb up the line of your calf, blinking distractedly before he repeats the same motion to the other side.

“ _Watch your step_ ,” he breathes, fingers barely grazing the skin of your ankle, finally looking up. Your legs feel like jelly, the warmth of his touch burning and chilling in tandem, and you’re not sure if you remember what stepping means.

“Take my arm?”

A nod—damn, trembling again—and you submit to latching on lest you want to make a complete ass of yourself. A deep breath. You fall into his pace and finally reach the door.

One more look-over. You grip your hair, smudge your lipstick, tug one rhinestone strap off your shoulder. Bucky loosens his bowtie, bunches his collar into his fist and lets it go. Then, dramatically, you squeeze yourself through the crack of the door, sheepishly glancing at guests who spot you. An overt bite of your bottom lip and you smooth your hair _just so_.

The ruse sells. Of course it does. The two of you exit without a hitch.

The hotel’s lights catch on the plush fabric, beams it blue before he steps into a shadow. Still not quite home free, he watchfully tugs you close to him.

Bucky’s giving his ticket to the valet boy when a hoard of footsteps and yelling erupts from the lobby. Your heart flies up into your throat again, reflexively reaching for your thigh, but he grabs your wrist. The car is pulling out of the garage. It’s so close.

“Wait,” he commands. Automatic doors slide open behind him. You’re trying not to make eye contact with the first guy sprinting out.

“Quick—” he leans down, “Kiss me.”

And you do, fingers reach up his nape, tangle in his hair, other hand sliding into his tuxedo jacket, over his ribs. Your eyes close. You breathe deep. Bucky pulls you close, torso against torso—so, so warm—and moans into your mouth. His tongue slips over your bottom lip. He pauses briefly, but grips tight, and you know he’s listening for movement.

The crowd passes. Bucky lingers on. One more—soft, slow, restrained—and then he’s pressing his forehead against yours, licking his lips. A hiss of the automatic door again and his hand wraps around your waist, splayed over the small of your back. A hum vibrates into your throat. A little bit less restraint chases it.

“Mm—” he shrugs, parting. Hardly trying now to contain his grin when you find no one around but the valet and the jangle of keys. “My mistake.”

The car slides onto the road. Bucky steers with his left, right harmlessly over the gear lever of an automatic. At each light, he looks over to you, inches his fingers closer, until you take the hint and place it over yours.

“Okay,” you mumble, face burning hot.

“Am I being obvious?”

“Just now?”

“Or, ever. Try not to be, I guess. Think I stare at you too much.”

You blink, astonished. Red flushes pink over Bucky’s eyes and they shine like sunlight. Iridescent. Magical. Then, it flips green and he’s releasing the break, gazed turned back to the road, still glittering like stars. He squeezes your hand, thumb brushing over yours, gentle and earnest.

So, you love him.

So, you stumble head first.


	12. "i don't mind" (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have neglected 28 Ways so badly. Here is some Bucky softness via request. Reader has insecurity from scars on her shoulders and chest. Fluffy and silly.

Charioted by starfall, courage arrives in late July.

Under a nocturnal breeze, the compound’s northern pond finds a few more reflections. Surface skimmers breach dark waters with their spindly limbs, making discs of midnight wrinkles, skipping from one ripple to the next. Loamy dirt gathers between your toes, warm peat burying and unearthing.

Bucky’s vibrant with anticipation tonight, propping your tired body up with his shoulder, having kidnapped you from bed with promises of witnessing meteors ignite the sky. A wriggle beneath his black bomber and you tug the collar tight around your neck, shrinking down.

He got too carried away rushing you out without warning—not even letting you put shoes on—but at least he’d been mindful enough to grab it. Nearly habit now, and he doesn’t quite know if he’s helping you or enabling you.

One of his favorite friends– one of his favorite people in the world—and, hell, the things your brain betrays you about. Trifling marks—wounds from ages ago. Nobody even notices them, but they haunt you so bad you wear his jacket in the heat of summer.

Watchful moon casts silver over your lashes and the tip of your nose when you stir. A noisy suck of your teeth before you come for answers.

“So… are the… shooting stars in your imagination, or..?”

Bucky pats around for his phone, tossed somewhere in the grass and scrolls through the open tabs hastily, finding the article listing every astronomical event of— _ah_. _Shit…_. 

Nice going, Barnes. Way to overlook one extraordinarily vital detail. You’re going to _kill_ him.

“Oh my god.” Disbelief fans over his shoulder as you jab at the numbers on his screen with an accusatory finger. “2017? Bucky…”

You begin to sputter before it takes off full blast into a cackling laugh— your best impersonation of a cartoon witch, he thinks— how you sound when you’re doing it at his expense. In between gasps, you manage to croak, “Your omelet got scrambled so bad you forgot the _year_!”

His favorite person in the world—who else would Bucky let rib him like this—and sometimes he’d like to kill you right back.

“You’re dead,” he sighs, accepting his resumed occupation of murderer. “ _So_ dead.”

“Wait—” you plead, “Hold—hold on—N-No!”

Your screams scatter every insect within a 20 feet radius, rising louder and louder but it doesn’t matter because no one’s out here to save you.

The price of Bucky Barnes’ elusive affection, you’ve come to know (and fear), is a love language dedicated to candor and contact. If only those green junior agents saw how the passionate the indomitable Winter Soldier was about stargazing and excavating your damn armpits.

“Quit!” You screech, flailing uselessly. “Motherf—!”

“You’re gonna piss yourself, aren’t you?” he huffs in reply, fingers like pickaxes digging into your sides, “Go ahead, pissbaby, piss yourself.”

Tussling like animals now, bodies barrel through grass as a blur of hair and limbs. You howl in equal measures of delight and terror as Bucky pummels you into the dirt.

Finally, he snags you in a headlock, a gracious gesture to let you catch your breath. It’s a vibranium bear trap around your neck as the rest of your body writhes beneath, jerking like a fish out of water. One final useless thrash and Bucky’s knuckles part your hair in warning, bones digging into your scalp. 

“Take it back or you’re gonna fucking get it.” Noogie incoming.

“Ow—okay!” You relent under a tick of pressure, “Your brain is a perfectly formed egg—uncracked!”

He sits you back up, grinning at the damage he’s done—brushing and patting off the dirt from your knees and face, everything gone slick and warm from effort. A sheen of sweat glistens across your brow and a single bead of sweat rolls down your neck. Still laughing, he watches you a while longer.

“Serves you right,” Bucky says, giving another pat to your dusted ankles.

“Well,” you distractedly wipe your cheeks, fanning yourself with both hands to cool down, “ _You’re_ … stupid.”

“Your feet are ticklish, right?”

“Do _not!_ ” You yelp, pulling away before he can harass you some more. A flap of the bomber’s open lapels and your eyes dart quickly at him. Bucky pauses, catching the nervousness of your gaze. “It’s hot. Okay? _Don’t_ look at me,” you say sharply, and his heart drops into his stomach.

This again. 

Bucky groans. If only he could siphon out the self-loathing from your brain. That traitorous part of you housing a million tiny points of uncertainty that he’d like to throw away. He’d chuck it clear off the peak of the highest mountain and shout _good fucking riddance!_

Unfortunately, it’s not in his power to change your mind about anything, but he attempts prayer at whatever other powers are out there—deities or cosmos—he’ll take anything to give you confidence. Give him, courage.

“I don’t– care,” he mumbles. Quiet rustling as the sleeves come off your arms. You take a second to respond and he’s holding his breath for it. 

Then you say while folding the bomber up into your lap, “Good. Then don’t care by not looking.”

 _Unbelievable._ He tries again. 

“What if I _want_ to look at you?”

“Look at me do what?”

“Do nothing.” Bucky shrugs awkwardly, “I just want to look because I like you.”

“Well, like me with your eyes closed.”

 _Fucking_ unbelievable.

“C’mon,” he sighs, and you glance at him briefly, half-indignant, half-apologetic. Stubborn, most of all, and backsliding into your shell now through the safety of your smart tongue.

But Bucky knows you better than your covers and better than scratches and scars and willful pigmentation. You’re fireflies in the dusk of summer—like sunrise breaking over the skyline, piercing the treescape with shine. You’re the pages of his most favorite book, well-versed and well-loved.

Stipples or softness, every bit wholly, entirely, you—god, why wouldn’t he like all of it?

Still, the jacket lies immobile over your legs; you make no move to put it back on or to turn his face away. Those absent stars have answered his prayers, after all.

A shy smile at him like a crescent moon polished brightly and Bucky thinks you look beautiful like a constellation. A celebration of starlight, a scattering of the milky way and he’s just the fortunate devotee trusted enough to witness it. His favorite vision and sometimes you want to disappear.

It breaks his stupid heart.

Gently, one hand finds the back of his collar, pulling his shirt over his head until it’s off completely, landing with a rustle into your lap. Two carapaces shedding to reveal vulnerable flesh.

“Bucky—"

He guides you toward his arm, over that running line of raised sinew and the corners of your mouth start turning down. The previous moment’s levity seeps away the closer your fingertips get and your lips tuck between your teeth, breath breaching in shallow exhales.

“Buck—"

“ _I don’t mind,_ ” he urges.

His heart swells with affection as you begin to trace him delicately, knowing his own sensitivities. Bucky returns the gesture, fingers skimming up your arms, thumbprints dancing over skin and you shudder beneath his hands. Contact and candor, you’ve come to know him well; he’s your favorite person in the world, too.

The puckered skin, ropes of scar tissue, pinched in places, and hollow in others—reminders of pain, yes, but also of triumph. A cord like lightning, a vine like ivy. A marker of his chronicle and history.

And you, touched by blemish, are also slowly conquering.

“Look at us, huh?” Circles dance over your shoulders, falling down the slope of your collarbone. “Pieces of nature, is all, in our skins.”

“Y-yeah,” you say, leaning back onto his shoulder, your eyes pressed to it, cheek growing damp with rolling tears. They smear into the gloss of his sweat, both shimmery under moonglow.

Keeping his hand in yours, you give it a firm squeeze and mutter, “Thanks.”

“Sure,” he responds, “Any time you need a reminder.”

“You’ll strip?”

“You won’t even have to pay me.”

You chuckle. Soft and indulgent and he knows tonight’s confidence won’t last forever, but he’s serious—any time, he’s got you.

When it starts, neither of you notice, forgetting completely about the previously mislabeled article and scuffling that followed. Caught up in listening to each other’s laughter, fingers entwined, Bucky nuzzles his nose into your hair, eyes transfixed on your shy smile, growing brighter and brighter.

Lines sizzle above—clumps of space rock brilliantly streaking down like gems finding a new home on this alien planet. Cicada song accompanies the melody of whistling wind heralding their chance arrival.

Bucky counts the stars on your skin and makes a wish on each one.


	13. "don't cry" (s.r.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are trudging through 28 Ways, lads. Some slightly angsty hurt/comfort with Steve because literally this is me spiraling. 🧡🧡🧡 Thank you for reading! 843 words.

You take off during another meet-and-greet.

SHIELD recruits and a handful of VIP guests come by the compound for a tour. It’s supposed to boost morale to meet Earth’s Greatest Defenders. Keep the ol’ motivation going in hard times—through alien invasions and insurrections and those pesky underground assemblies of new HYDRA devotees. 

They flatter and fawn, they’re grateful and yada-yada-yada.

The age group seems lower each time. Doe-eyed young girls twisting their ankles to get a grip on Steve’s hand and agents who can’t grow beards fiddling with their conversation cards, swarming him like flies to honey.

He smiles pretty like usual and always. Puts his hands on his hips and chuckles on cue, politely refusing when someone tries to give him their number.

But you can’t do it. You’re up to your eyes in irascible resentment and the recurrent ache that being with him always feels too much and never enough.

He knows how it grates on you, settling inside like terrible deposition, metastasized by the days until it turns to rot. A chafing wound bloomed open and hungry. So when he chases you down to your shared quarters, knocking the bathroom door open to find you scrubbing your face furiously, he tries to keep his calm.

But, like usual and always, and especially with you, he can’t.

“Go on,” Steve commands, “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

You catch his gaze in the mirror bitterly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His lips press together, a miniscule raise of his brows enough to convey his entire train of thought. You move to towel your chin dry, patting quickly and grabbing your phone off the counter like you’re leaving—but he knows you won’t.

“Don’t you have another twenty sycophants lined up to kiss your ass?” Your anger is a roman candle, sparked up. “All those pretty girls falling to their knees—” your gut contorts in a twist of decisive pain. At others, for their veneration, at him, for simply existing. At yourself, for being unable to keep the hurt from exploding over your face.

At the truth, most of all.

He’s an ageless and aquiline, carved up and built as a withstanding monolith never eroded by the passing of time. Thirty last year and this year, and all the years to come. Nothing about his body changes like yours does. You’ll be in your coffin long before Steve Rogers will. And Captain America will live on even after that—your name nowhere to be found except on your own gravestone.

He’s a thing of wonder and exemplar. Timeless. Everlasting. And you… well, you’re a lonely firework, aren’t you? You’re a one-burn propulsion. A single-serve star.

“Stop it,” Steve pleads suddenly, taking your wrist, heart breaking when your glare turns watery. “Sweetheart, stop it.”

You gnash your teeth, spiraling violently like how you get after plummeting somewhere he can’t follow. But still, he tries, despite how you retreat like a frightened animal, he pads through dark to find you curled up in your grief. 

Steve knows where you go when you can’t sleep, when you look at him and the spark he loves dampens into tears. He knows at the core of all your rage, you’re scared of losing him to a thing beyond your control. So you do what all helpless people do—you ruin it yourself.

His strong girl. Dazzling girl. Spectacular like a flash fire, never a victim to circumstance, and you won’t start being one now. You fight everything, even him sometimes.

“ _Don’t cry_ ,” he says when you claw at his back, sniffling angrily because you hate when the thought of mortality becomes too cruel. He noses top of your head, voice quiet and crushed. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m yours and yours only. You’ve got to know that.”

“I _don’t_ know that…” you stutter, but finally yield to his hold, fists curling at the small of his back. “I— _don’t_.”

Steve sighs. “Well, I do.” He lets you fall into him, your warm face on his collar, chest to chest, “I know, and that’s enough for me. Come on… let me see you.”

He kisses you sweet and long, mouth lingering on your damp cheeks, your brow, every line and worry. He doesn’t stop until your tears do, peppering over your eyes and jaw until you give him a small smile, sad and ephemeral, but still beautiful and still singularly _yours_.

“Steve,” you say, wounded.

“C’mon,” he says back, mouth on the shell of your ear now, “Let me show you. Let me love you until you do.”

He takes you to bed, keeping you as close as he can so that you won’t run from him again. He pulls you out of that anguished foxhole behind your ribs, even if just for a little while. 

He touches your eyes, your face, until you forget yourself and until you remember him again, in all his everlasting glory. 

Until you know his love for you is just as endless as he is.

Like usual. 

And always.


	14. "call me when you get home" (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a lil bit of first date rom com fluff with bucko ~~ thank you for reading !

When Sam told him what he’d be doing on Saturday evening, Bucky groaned so loudly the couch vibrated.

_Come on, man, you really giving up on dating?_

He wanted to say _yes, Wilson, fuck off_. But Bucky only groaned again and reminded Sam that he’s not ready to date. Too busy. Too cranky. Scary robot arm. Last date went terrible and Bucky doesn’t even remember how to talk to a woman unless he’s trying to de-escalate a hostage situation.

Sam couldn’t be deterred. _Dude, that was like, a year ago. Just try one time--Sharon’s friend, from work—remember her, Barnes? Steve, you know her. Pretty, funny, real sweet. She already agreed to it, she’s gonna meet you there at 7. Thank me later._

Bucky rummaged through his mind for _pretty, funny, real sweet_ and came up empty. Steve pretended to remember—he didn’t—can’t remember anyone’s face but Sharon Carter’s, the lovestruck idiot—but if she was Sharon’s friend, then Bucky wasn’t allowed to stand her up. So, 7. Saturday. Date.

Fuck.

He’s sure he’s done all the right things. Laundered his clothes, showered, brushed his hair, shaved, even. Sam said to get flowers and hold the door. Make eye contact. Share a dessert. Pay for dinner. Give the girl your jacket and be on the left side of the sidewalk. Follow the script and he’s home free and looking at another date in possibly a week or so. Or if he’s lucky, Bucky scoffs internally, no date at all.

Perhaps he _shouldn’t_ have showered.

Either way, he’s off to an awful start because the traffic was worse than anticipated and the taxi got a flat so and he had to walk the last five blocks. It’s 7:40 and he’s barely through the door, the box of chocolates in the crook of his elbow probably melted.

All the flowers looked ugly, _Sam_. It was either chocolates or a balloon and Bucky’s not It the Clown, so… chocolates it was for the lucky lady.

Bucky scans the room and groans— possibly his default sound for anything now. Leave it to Wilson to suggest this kind of restaurant—it’s all candles and floral centerpieces. There’s even a live orchestra in the corner. He’s severely underdressed.

The hostess taps her pen, “Sir, do you have a reservation?”

Oh. Shit.

He looks over her head, hopeful at a row of empty tables and booths. “Can’t I just, get put on a list or something? It’s two people. She might—already be here.” He surveys again, dodges the hostess trying to block his view, but can’t see anyone sitting alone.

Sam told him your hair color, described the little freckle above your eyebrow, something about your face being symmetrical and how sweet your smile was— but that could be _anybody_. People’s faces are naturally symmetrical, aren’t they? And Bucky certainly can’t make out a freckle from this distance.

“No sir, we’re booked all night—”

“Hey!” A hand unexpectedly lands on his arm. “Bucky! Oh my god. I’m so sorry I’m late.”

Bucky follows the hand to its wrist, to its arm, to its shoulder, collar, neck, finally, then, to its owner.

He remembers you now. A couple of times—dropping off packages at the compound, dossiers and flash drives, saying hello and goodbye but not much of anything else.

Your mouth hangs open tonight, sucking in deep breaths, baby hairs slick on your forehead. 7:45 and you’re off to an awful start, too.

“Tried to get a coffee on the way—spilled it—” a gesture to your blouse and the offending blotch glares deep brown from sky blue cotton. “Ran into a kid on a bicycle, made him fall. Scraped his knee. You wouldn’t believe how long a mother can yell until you accidentally tip over her kid--” You pause, looking at the hostess’ annoyance, then at Bucky’s bewildered face, and put two and two together.

“Ma’am, we’re booked all night.” The hostess’ pen taps after each word in emphasis.

You narrow your eyes and Bucky defensively reels back, expecting you might start yelling at him for forgetting to reserve ahead of time until you shake your head.

Sharon Carter is a Cotillion debutante and private nearly to a fault— she speaks carefully, keeps everything close to the vest, old-school formalities when it comes to courtship. So, when Sam said _Sharon’s friend_ , Bucky expected someone similar. When he stepped into this extravagant restaurant severely underdressed, he expected someone similar.

Symmetrical faced, sweet smiled, freckled somewhere, but demure, maybe. Prim and proper.

But then—you groan, loud and annoyed, and ask:

“Do you like burgers? Do you mind the grease?”

And _god_ , Bucky thinks. God _bless_ Sharon Carter.

-

Hell, it’s a mess.

There are tears rolling down your cheeks. Bursts of gasping breaths, wheezing in-between shrill noises. The coffee stain on your shirt found a good friend in a diagonal line of bright yellow egg yolk and you’re laughing so hard people are starting to stare.

The burger you’d gotten—medium rare, double meat, bacon, fried egg, all toppings between—has completely fallen apart in a splat back onto your plate. The first bite was tragic—right into the yolk and it popped like a water balloon all over your chest.

He fumbles for napkins—for cold water? But you wave his worries away, licking your fingers before diving in to deconstruct your food.

“Sorry—I promise I have my shit together.” Another giggle, “Not making a very good first date impression. I hope you like the place, at least?”

“Yeah,” he grins, “I do. And, uh, I think you’re doin’ great.”

The words slip out before he can catch them and Sam’s slew of dating advice comes hitting him like a ton of too-late bricks. _Keep it mysterious, Barnes._ But what else should he say, he’s having loads more fun at this diner that smells like a thousand packs of stale cigarettes than he would have at that uppity potpourri scented Italian restaurant serving entrees the size of his thumb.

Around a mouthful of tater tots, you thank him, and then you take a breath, and he can literally see you winding up for another enormous bite.

“Sorry,” you pause sheepishly, “I had a really busy day at work—skipped lunch on accident.” You take the enormous bite he saw coming, and then, “Also doesn’t help—mm—I’m a nervous talker.”

Bucky chews on a fry and slurps his soda, entirely forgetting his courtship manners. “Nervous ‘bout what?”

“Aw, c’mon…” you roll your eyes emphatically as Bucky tilts into his straw. Another slow sip with his mouth around the plastic and you swallow a noisy gulp of tomato, “Come _on._ ”

“What?”

The burger gets placed back on its wax paper, now small enough to return to its prior state, you rearrange it carefully on the plastic lattice bowl, staring at him the entire time.

A disbelieving scoff leads, “Imagine this, Sharon comes sashaying into my office—okay, not sashay, march— _marching_ into my office and says _are you interested in going on a date Friday?_ ” You wiggle your head, tilt your head down and purse your lips staunchly. A pretend flip of hair over your shoulder and you whisper, “She’s perfect; this is what perfect women do, trust me.”

Bucky suppresses a grin at the sight. Steve would be jumping to defend her honor if he were here.

“She says, _I know your last few weren’t the best… but this one--_ And I’m drowning in paperwork, okay? Drowning. I’m stamping files, eating goldfish crackers, nodding along—anything to get her out of my office—”

“So you agreed…”

“Uh-huh.”

“…to go on a date…” he mulls it over, “… to shut her up?”

“Hell yes.” And then, “Oh!” You start shaking your head wildly, “No. No, no, no. No, not like that—I told you I’m a nervous talker—I didn’t know it was you until about fifteen minutes before I left the house! I would have _never_ said yes if I knew it was you.”

Bucky frowns at that, but then you come full circle, rolling your eyes another time. A mustard-smudged hand points from the top of Bucky’s head down to his chest and back up again.

“Have I said ‘c’mon’ yet?”

“Once or twice.”

“Well, yeah. Come _on_. You’re—please don’t make me say it.”

He looks on, not quite sure _what_ you’re going to say at all. It’s a toss-up between “a legend”, “an Avenger”, and “a murderer”. So it’s a pleasant surprise when you pop a French-fry into your mouth and mundanely announce, “Bucky, you’re handsome.”

He blinks.

You blink.

He blinks again.

“No, listen,” you urge, “You’re _obscenely_ good-looking.”

His face is so hot that he thinks someone must have thrown a fire into him. Maybe he would have preferred being called a murderer?

“Is it some kind of superhero requirement, you know? Before you get green-lighted to save the world, you’ve gotta win America’s Next Top Model. Or in your case, an international season of ANTM takes … Soviet Russia?”

The reference is lost on him, but he gets the point well enough.

You place your hand in front of him like a running marquee, “I can see it now. Tyra Banks announcing, James Buchanan Bucky Barnes. Eyes: blue; hair: brown; height—” a pause as you consider his posture before continuing, shockingly precise.

“6 feet; 185 pounds; measurements: 42 chest, 33 waist; bicep circumference: 17 and a half inches.”

Bucky crosses his arms in embarrassment, and then uncrosses them because he’s thinking too closely about his biceps now. “Didn’t read _that_ in a museum. You get it from just looking— look _away_ , damn it.”

You quickly do, trying to suppress a grin and failing miserably. Bucky is too, shifting in his seat, opening his mouth to say something and then unable to get anything out other than a disoriented and amused, “ _Shit_.”

Sam would never Bucky live down that his first date in six months eyefucked him well enough to get his _bicep_ measurement. The jokes would be endless. He can practically hear Sam cackling in his ear.

A beat passes and he tries again, now at the end of the meal and the stain on your blouse starting to sink in and spread, heavy enough to dip toward the skin beneath. “Do you want to take your shirt off?”

You choke on soda and add another splatter down your chest, turning into a proper Jackson Pollock canvas.

“You can wear my jacket,” Bucky clarifies. “Give it back next time. I mean, if you…” He frowns. “Uh. Um.”

Sam’s putting up tallies in Bucky’s head. Another scratch indicating he’s forgoing the mystery, which should have been easy for him since he’s an international assassin with at least one dead president under his belt.

“Of course, Bucky, I’d like that,” you say, saving him for tripping up over any more words, smiling slow and shaky. Different than the impish grins and all-teeth laughing, still lovely— but just, _different_. Like you’re pinching down a too-sweet thought about him with the corners of your mouth. It goes big and again when you tack on, “And I won’t even eyefuck you next time.”

It’s his turn to choke, sputtering as he blushes. 6 feet, 185 pounds, 17-inch circumference biceps, reformed murderer going napalm hot under a pretty girl’s eyes. Jesus wept, he really is hopeless.

-

He can’t believe it’s past midnight already, or that the two of you walked the length of Central Park and then looped back around about two more times.

You changed out of your shirt after dinner, ducking from the diner’s restroom bashfully, your old blouse in a crumple inside his pocket. His jacket hung a bit loose, but zipped up all the way and it was a good enough cover for a while.

The night cooled enough to where you weren’t too hot, and he wasn’t too cold, and neither of you seemed ready to leave just yet. Central Park was a perfect place to dodge the city’s unavoidable crowd and occasional sewage gust, so the two of you wandered aimlessly, stopping here and there to rest, even splitting the liquefied chocolates on a bench.

You get smudges of it on your cheek and Bucky figures it’s just a personality trait at this point. He laughs when you stick your tongue out, trying to find exactly where it is before giving up and asking him to thumb it off.

He shoves his hands in his pocket afterwards, thumb jammed inside his fist like a souvenir, keeping it there the rest of the walk, all the way up to the iron gate of your apartment complex before he wonders if he should have been trying to hold your hand instead.

Maybe not. It was only the first date, after all.

By the pin pad, you rock back and forth on your feet. “Thanks for dinner,” you say, looking up at him.

“Yeah, of course.”

“And the chocolates.” A beat passes. “And the walk… and jacket, too. It’s really nice… comfortable and, uh, smells... good. Like, motor oil and… a nice body wash and… trees.” You make a nauseated face and close your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose uncomfortably as Bucky looks on.

Oh, he realizes. You must be nervous.

_Oh_ , he realizes. _Should he kiss you?_

He can’t remember if Sam mentioned this or not. Does mystery assume no kissing? Is it too soon for that? He thinks he must have kissed a few first dates in the past, but he’s not really sure if it’s too bold now. He’s really does start to sweat. _Bullets_.

The easy conversation and laughter from the past two hours is nowhere to be found. Bucky goes mute and you start fiddling with your phone, clearing your throat loudly and then pointing to the rectangular outline in his pocket.

He gives you his number immediately, tumbling over the area code and string of digits, so empty in his brain that when it vibrates in his grip after you text him, he almost jumps.

“ _Call me when you get home_?” Your voice is small and hopeful, and you look like you’re biting your cheek.

“Sure,” he replies dumbly. You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck before turning and unlocking the gate. One final long look at him, his face, his mouth, his fingers, and you tug on his pinky shyly before heading through and toward your door.

Bucky reflexively makes a fist, entire limb tingling up to his elbow, the tiny gesture burrowing into his chest. Suddenly, he forgets entirely the modesty of first dates. He steps out of his body for a minute, staring at his still cupped palm like he’s holding a flame.

Rules be damned.

He taps the green icon next to your name, watching you suddenly pause a few meters away.

“Hey!” he blurts too-eagerly when you pick up, confused and turning to find him still where you left him on the other side. “Sam said I should wait to call. At least a day.”

“Oh yeah…?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky nods, “Said it’s a bad look—guy being too excited. Gotta—I don’t know. Make the girl anticipate a little. Keep her interested.”

You retrace your steps, walking back, “What if the girl’s already interested?”

“Yeah?” He’s breathless, warmed up. “Not a bad look?”

“No. You look good to me.” Eyes travel up and down, peeking through diamond shapes of the iron gate, “Sharon told me something similar, since we’re on the subject of what’s good or bad.”

“What’s that?”

It should feel stupid that he’s been holding a phone call with someone who’s barely two feet away from him. Inches now, and you step slow, nose almost up against the frame. A metal clank and the gate slowly unlatches, opening up. You tuck the device into your back pocket, and Bucky does the same, barely registering the disconnecting click, heart racing with adrenaline.

Then, you smile.

_Fuck_. That smile.

“Said it’s not good to kiss on the first date,” mischievously, you lean in, touch him soft on the lips and every beat of his pulse seems to be reaching out for the sweet breath in your mouth. “And I shouldn’t invite you inside, but we both seem to be … not good… at following dating decorum, so…” Your eyes light up teasingly, “You wanna come…in?”

Bucky makes a noise like a whimper. Wow. International assassin with a Kennedy under his belt and it’s a dirty joke that does him in.

You kiss him again, longer than the last, giggling softly and tugging on his bottom lip like you could pull his entire body toward you with just that. “I’m sure we could find a few more first date rules to break.”

“Yeah,” he says, ducking for another one, lips increasingly impatient. “I’m… in.”

You pull away with a laugh, tugging on his shirt, grabbing his hand. As Bucky’s towed along, he can’t help but think of two things:

First, god _bless_ Sharon Carter, and second… well, maybe he will thank Wilson for setting him up, after all.


	15. "i hope you like it" (s.r.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a lil fluff for my fav lil shit: steve. thanks for reading, everyone :')

Your birthday party is in full swing, and although you requested— _begged_ —Tony to keep it as low-key as his ostentatious heart possibly could, what did you expect, really?

A crowd of a hundred new faces scatter the handful you _do_ know, and you’re visibly shaken by a bursting song. Between strangers crooning _happy birthday to you, dear_ , you pick out fixtures in the faces of friends—Natasha, Sam, Pepper, Bucky, Steve.

Steve.

Glittering eyes framed by pretty lashes, chin tucked to chest in a poor effort to hide his smile at your expense. Captain America and the mischievous side of him reserved only for a select few; you’d like to give him a piece of your mind.

Slice of cake in hand, he sidles up next to you when the roar quiets, taking a small bite. Steve watches some foot traffic circle, congratulating you (on what?), toasting you (for what?), asking for selfies (Christ, Almighty!), and your awkward, tight-lipped thanks and grimacing for the ‘gram in response.

He wanders away to the bay window after a minute, a quick corner glance beckoning you along, saving you from more suffering. In front of the glass, he shields you from the crowd, catching sunlight ruffling his hair, spilling beams like a halo you’d be happy to drink.

Steve tucks a hand into his jacket, digging around for something.

You’re suspicious. “What is it, you little shit?” And he laughs, fake-shocked, and bumps your shoulder impishly. “Alright, I’ll let that one slide today.”

Another rustle over his chest and he produces a slip of paper.

Unfolded, the journal page peers at you with tiny smudges around his handiwork. It looks so small between his fingers. Modest and effortless like an afterthought he scribbled out next to his morning coffee, but you know better. You’ve watched him draw next to the open window, brow furrowed in concentration, chewing lightly on the skin of his cheek, meticulous flicks of his wrist cross-hatching layers upon layers of graphite.

It takes him _hours_. Your throat constricts.

He’s rendered your likeness here—shoulders relaxed, eyes half-lidded, mouth in an easy smile. Delicately drawn and quietly admired and unlike a way you’ve ever seen yourself. But it is _you_.

Steve watches your fingers rub the half-crinkled edges, thinks for a second maybe he should have framed it but then he wouldn’t be able to see the way you touch it now. Softly, carefully, rolling the corners, reveling in the fine pressed grain sensation. 

Chin to chest, his signature move, and he looks at you, really, like he’s studying, tracing, keeping with his eyes the way his hand might later, wrapped around a pencil, committing you to memory and paper. He holds back the tickle in his belly at the way you’re stunned speechless and pins a little wish on how maybe you won’t hate it. Won’t think it’s silly and stupid and a waste.

“ _I hope you like it_ ,” he says expectantly, unsurely.

You look back at him, at his pretty mouth and shy smile, his shoulders trying to roll back and ease but pulled together instead, waiting nervously, and so different from the Steve five minutes ago smirking at your discomfort.

You hold it to your chest like a fragile thing, attentive and gentle. With your other hand, you cup his cheek, warmth spreading from where the swirl of your fingertips touch his skin. His lids flutter close reflexively. He stutters out a breath.

Quick. Chaste. Perfect. And you punctuate the first kiss with one more— coy and teasing—to the plump, pink, softness of his heavy lower lip. Steve stands up straight when you pull away. Breathless and shocked, delighted all the same.

“So…” he grins, playful again, “You like it? I thought about drawing myself first, so you could finally put up something nice in your room.”

He’s blinding. Smile relieved and swollen with affection, tongue coyly tracing the pressure of where you just were, of your lips sweeter than the linger of cake, committing it to memory, too. Steve prods the crumbs on his plate with his fork when you say, “Think it’d be too vain to put it in my room, Rogers.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

You shrug, pretending not to be elated. “Put it in yours and… draw yourself and I’ll put it in mine. You finally got a good idea, Rogers; it _would_ be nice.”

Steve laughs, licking his lips again instinctively, even though you’re stealing his idea, even though it was a joke to begin with, the little wish he made turning true and then some.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “The nicest.”


	16. "it's not heavy, i'm stronger than i look" (s.r.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gotta! keep! truckin! another installment of 28 ways with Steve because I’m really so stupid for him. fluffy banter and flirty dialogue from one very tender boi. 2.4k words. thank you for reading!!

The call isn’t always sudden.

More often than not, it’s weeks of planning and preparing—studying files, scouting, coordinating, cleaning weapons, restocking ammunition. Harder training sessions, too, and you’re never quite sure what’s worse—the rush to embark or the worry of the wait.

It’s more time to fret, either way. More time for you to turn scenarios in your head like a stone, unyieldingly tight. For the most part, you try not to, fearing that the worry might become prophecy and that your proximate grief may very well arrive true.

It never does.

The stone still turns.

-

It does again when Sam hosts a gathering. An informal affair, effortless comfort of good company before they leave the following afternoon.

His backyard is strung up with lights like lassoed stars. There are citronella candles on tables, the grill behind them fired up and smoking. Open windows stream out music and indoor laughter— silverware and bottles clinking and by the time you rap your knuckles on the screen hauling drinks and desserts, Sam’s devoured two burgers and making quick work of his third.

He yells from around a mouth of lettuce and pickles, “Door!” And you’re already grinning on the other side at the slur of his consonants.

“I got ya,” Steve calls, pulling, and immediately catching the box slipping from your arm. A twinkle in his blue eyes and he wonders with delight, “Blueberry pie?”

“Your favorite,” you confirm. “Before you ask,” you call down the walkway, “Bucky—I also made fudge brownies with cashews, weirdo.”

“Christ, he’s gonna make himself sick again.” Steve nudges at the 12-pack gripped in your hand, ignoring Bucky’s victorious cheer from the couch, “Lemme get that.”

Playfully offended, you rebuke, “ _It’s not heavy,_ Rogers _. I’m stronger than I look.”_

A second passes of peculiar light flickering over Steve’s face, softening his features. Convinced, he murmurs, “I know you are,” but takes it anyway and closes the door by reaching over your head.

-

The rule is: no shop talk. Drop the call signs, drop the spy stuff. They stay 24-hour free of work-related conversation because they can’t wear themselves out on it before it starts.

Instead, there’s food, beer, dancing, games—video or table or pool. Washer boards are in the back if anyone makes it out before sunset or if they have exceptional night vision due to genetic enhancements. Keep it carefree and fun and not. about. work.

You kick Bucky’s ass at cards with mustard on the corner of your mouth, cackling in glee when he accuses you of being a dirty cheat. Then, to avenge his honor, Natasha kicks your ass and steals the rest of your food. Wanda claps nearby, perched on the corner of the dining room table, shaking her head vigorously when Nat’s eyes turn her way.

“Oh no, none for me,” she says. “How about you, Steve?”

He peeks in, “Terrible poker face, but if anybody wants to get embarrassed at pool, just let me know.” She scoffs and waves him away, but Steve lingers a while, dawdling aimlessly until he spots the crumbs on your lap.

“Can I get you anything?”

Your empty plate stares back at you—blue-green ceramic like the color of his eyes, patient like how he’s waiting for your company. “Sure,” you decide, “Something sweet sounds good.”

To your left, Bucky snorts, “Bet it does.”

-

“You gotta tell me the recipe,” Steve pleads three slices later, hip against the kitchen counter, elbow next to the pie box. The damn thing’s completely gone, barely a smear of indigo left in the tin, looking like a vulture swooped through. You technically baked it for _everyone_ , but it’s a running joke with the team how it’s always Steve’s pie—and maybe if they’re lucky, he’ll share.

Today, he decided to share with you—the _baker_ of said pie—just one slice. Incorrigible glutton.

He digs inside, ransacking for specks of pastry. “Is it crack?”

“You don’t even process drugs that way,” you say. “And it’s _love_ , okay? Love and my unwashed hands because I think you need a few germs in your life. You’re _way_ too healthy.”

“Plenty happy to eat ‘em if it means more o’ this.” He gives another few stabs at his plate and then his finger starts exhuming the grooves of your own dish to prove his point. “Mmm— _germs_.”

With theatric astonishment, you stare blatantly at his abdomen, taut and sleek beneath his shirt despite the fact that he’s consumed more than enough to feed a small country. “Where does it _go_?”

“To his biceps!” Sam hollers, interrupting Nat in the middle of a retelling of _one time in Belarus_.

You nod, “Must be true, they’re looking awfully big today.”

Steve blushes hot, crossing his arms one over the other, stammering before he gives up and turns away from you, facing the fridge instead. 

“Nevermind!” Sam calls again, lifting himself up on his fists, leering over the bar counter. “It definitely goes to his ass. Steve, you flexin’ that thing? Buns of _steel_ —look at it bounce! Whoo! Someone throw him a dollar!”

Bucky joins in, right hand over his heart patriotically, “I pledge allegiance to Steve’s ass, of the United States of—aw, Stevie—I was jokin’!”

Steve’s done a full body retreat behind the fridge, disappearing from his howling spectators and fiercely mouthing _you started this,_ but you only follow Bucky’s lead. “And to the republic, for which it—”

He careens himself out the back door like a cannonball, scurrying so fast you swear there’s a trail of dust behind him. Puppy dog pouts are thrown back your way every few steps and even from the other side of the glass.

He’s mouthing all sorts of things back in—your lip reading needs a bit of work so you can onlysquint and respond with _no idea, what are you saying? I can’t—come back in here—_ giggling the entire time and pretending not to.

Stubbornly, he keeps retreating until he’s a blurry shape of wide shoulders beneath string lights. A final fluttery laugh falls from your chest, delighted at his antics and how he’s still and might always be hilariously shy.

Clearing the accrued mess along the kitchen before you join him, you recall the last time he met you at work. A Thursday lunch break to split up the monotony of exchanging intel at the tower or your office. You drove him to your usual spot and after a bit of hemming and hawing—Steve’s old-fashioned approach on an outing meant that he wanted you to sit, let him wait in line for your order, and consequently take the chance to foot the bill.

You’d complained that it was like, _twelve dollars, Steve_ , but he couldn’t be discouraged.

 _Can’t forget my manners just ‘cause it’s a new century,_ and _what kinda guy would I be, huh, if I let you bus me around town and pay for me—_ all the way up until the barista slipped her number into his shirt pocket and in a moment of sheer panic, he’d thrown the entire order away— drinks and all. Ridiculous.

“Aw, look at you,” Nat coos from the couch, “All smiley.”

“What—” you whip up, shocked. “I am _not_! Don’t make me throw these dishes at you, Romanoff. Oh, shut up— I’m just—"

The living room bursts into a chorus of scoffs and unimpressed jeering. Nat throws a napkin at your head, then her arm around Bucky. “Denial’s cute,” she whispers into his ear. “Or stupid…” Bucky announces.

You grip the counter menacingly and mouth _fuck you guys_ , satisfied that none of their lip-reading needs as much work as yours.

-

“No shop talk…” Steve warns when you make your way toward him a few minutes later, successfully shooed out by the peanut gallery inside. “Don’t deny it, you were sneaking by the relish earlier, _and_ the pantry.”

The phone aglow in your hand is guilty and open on a string of data but you click it off. It’s just habit; when no one’s looking, you get a few seconds with the details.

“I obviously don’t do fieldwork.” You admit, conceding when he nudges your arm. “Alright, alright, bossy.”

“ _Captain_. Did you forget?”

You smirk. “Never.”

He turns back to admire the hanging plants and trellis of vines, tracing coral petals of bougainvillea with his fingertips. Light bounces off his hair, the bridge of his nose, the plump slope of his bottom lip. You rub the corner of your phone, itching to read just _one more thing_ , but bravely shoving it down instead.

“You wanna chuck some washers?” Steve attempts at being helpful, enthusiastic that he got you outside at all. He knows how you get despite the humor and frivolity. These nights witness the cresting of your agonies—weeks or months of secretly fretting and you put on the bravest face you can to send them off, never knowing if they’ll make it back in one piece, achingly distraught that you can’t go with them, either.

“I can’t keep score,” you confess, unexpectedly tinged with sadness, “Don’t know how the numbers work.”

You’re doing it again. Dipping into your own self-subscribed doubts, subconsciously disclosing how you feel inadequate in comparison to what they do.

“Keep a secret?” He pads through the grass, ducking to gather metal discs, “I just throw ‘em. Don’t know how they work, either.”

“ _Steve_ ,” you breathe, your voice sounding desperate—scared. “I…” you change course. “I also just can’t fucking _see_.”

He stops walking, turning back sheepishly to you wading blindly in the indigo dark, fumbling increasingly the farther you get from the house, but persistent and trying to follow him regardless. Steve chews the skin of his lips. You’re—

He latches onto your outstretched hand, quickly adjusting his grip until he’s secured at your wrist. “Got ya. Kay? C’mon. We’ll play on the same side.”

It feels a bit unreasonable, more than anything, he just wants to be close to you. Car rides and coffee and getting the door. Banter in the kitchen, the backyard, complimenting your cooking when he really wants to just compliment _you_.

These nights witness his own anxieties too; what if he doesn’t come back? What if he doesn’t see you again? What if he never gets to profess the obvious?

And it’s got to be so obvious.

Especially now with him standing close, leaning until his chin touches your temple, pointing ahead and saying, “A straight shot,” as if he really cares about the washers. “Easy,” as if he’s only assuring you and not himself.

A few clunks in the distance, neither of you caring much where they land, your breath so shaky he stops moving to listen for it, and you peer through the night at him.

“Don’t worry so much,” he interjects before you can voice what’s been on your mind all day. “It’ll be simple. Fly by before you know it. Just a couple weeks, right?”

It’s gentle deception—a softness he wants to give you to soothe the thrashing of your nervous brain and your leaden heart. For his own fears, too.

“Poker face, Rogers. Yours needs practice.”

It’ll take _months_ before they come home; busied with infiltrating the kind of organization that has its claws in deep pockets and burrows across nations. Steve promised you they’d return at the end of a few weeks—but you were there, files spread out on the tables and floors, reading lightning-fast and mapping it out in your head.

No way it was that simple, and in the weeks following as you gathered more information, drew out plans and created false identities to plant them underground, you realized he was lying.

It must be so heavy. All that heft in your heart. How does he ease it from your shoulders?

The liminal space of expectation. The burden of unknowing.

Logic says there’s a house behind him, windows bright, safely containing all of your friends, but illusion—this gap, this time, this weight you grip so severely—forgoes all reason.

“Give it to me,” he whispers then, leaning until his forehead is nearly touching yours, fingers finding fingers, carefully grazing each other, untucking your clenched fist until it’s spread in his hold. “Your worry. I’ll hold onto it for now, bring it back to you later, and you’ll see that I’m safe.”

“Steve…” you’re wordless, blinking in concentration, heart swollen in your mouth, trying to make out the tender outline of where he’s touching you.

He raises your knuckles to his lips, and the distant light catches in the lines of his lashes, bowed downward like arrows pointing to where his mouth meets your skin. He carefully turns your hand over, tracing the lifeline in your palm with his nose, kissing one last time at the pulse poing of your wrist. “You’ll see… promise.”

He’s so sweet—his lips so soft and warm. His eyes, earnest and true.

“Besides,” Steve says puckishly, still laid gently in your palm. “Can’t die until I get that recipe from you, anyhow.”

“Wh-what?”

“The pie recipe. Can’t die yet. Or unless the germs kill me.”

You grumble, pinching his cheeks and pushing him up until he’s tall again. “I hope they do. You’re such a smartass.”

One more comment, because he really can’t help it, because he likes it when you’re happy. “Second time you’ve mentioned my ass tonight—guess you got a thing for it.”

Although he wants to— really _wants_ to— Steve doesn’t kiss you yet. Figures it’ll be the perfect thing to look forward to when he comes back— another incentive to work faster. 

Instead, he simply laces his fingers with yours, tugging you inside boldly in front of God and all your smug friends, plopping down in the sofa seat and audaciously placing you on his lap like routine.

Your neck heats up when he pulls you to his chest, embarrassment rushing to the apex of your cheeks and the top of your head, heart thumping with fondness and the nagging irony that maybe it’s _you_ who’s become hilariously shy. 

“Sweet lord, _finally_ ,” Bucky declares even as you hide your face, determined to keep stirring the pot. “We sat in here and debated on shovin’ your faces together. Hardheaded, the both of you.”

“Be quiet—” you scold, but he doesn’t let up.

“Think we didn’t see you out there all gooey? Talkin’ about comin’ home and kissin’ each other’s hands—what is this, medieval times?”

Then, because maybe the universe just has your back like that, or because _maybe_ you baked two batches of brownies knowing he’s a sucker for fudge, Bucky suddenly freezes, cut off in the middle of his barrage.

Wilted and betrayed and clutching his stomach, he wails, “Oh my god, I ate too fuckin’ much.”


End file.
